Of Myths and Machetes

Most every mythology, regardless of provenance, includes a version of the "hero/heroine's journey". Outwardly these are tall tales of epic journeys, battles and ordeals; of monsters and giants.
 Read more deeply, and they tell the story of everyman's inner journey, the struggle for self-discovery and self-mastery.
Wise-women, mentors or fairy-godmothers offer help along the way, often in the form of gifts: winged sandals, magic swords, cloaks of invisibility.
Today, while I visited my mum's for Mother's Day, she gave me Papi's old hard-hat and his fine Colombian machete. As I held that well-used but still-sharp blade, and when I plopped that hat on my head....well, I felt a little silly for a moment... but I also felt buoyed by the experience. I felt strengthened by my father's memory and by the energy that still lingers in those pieces.

 Now, I am unstoppable. Now, I am ready to go slay a hydra!


All Content Copyright 2013, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved

Meditations on Germination

It's days like today that remind me why I love Portland. Sure there's all of the ridiculous Portlandia stuff, but there are also these moments, just as the seasons change--- moments of pure joy and magic.

I was walking home, still wearing a coat against the slight chill, but enjoying the sunshine nontheless.
Just as I was walking under one of the many venerable old trees that still line the streets in my neighborhood, a sharp gust swept up an eddy of leaves and papery little seed-pods. They swirled around my feet and started upwards. I looked up to find more of the pods raining down from the topmost branches.
The sun had dipped just low enough to give the surrounding trees a thin halo.
It seemed for a moment I could see/feel them breathing and all I could do was smile and breathe along with them.

Meditations on Germination
Portland, OR
29 April, 2013


  **** 

Not the usual ICCG fare, to be sure, but there you are...consider it a peek behind the curtain. 

xo, 
 Infamous CoatCheck Girl


All Content Copyright 2013, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved

R.I.P Pauly Schermerhorn

It was 1995, maybe 1996, and my roommate at the time came home one day and said "I met this really cool old raver guy at the square today. He's like sixty years old. Can he come stay with us?"

"Are you insane?!" I asked "You want to let some creepy old guy,  who you just met on the street, come live with us?"

"Just wait until you meet him. You'll see."

Pauly Schermerhorn moved in with us the next day, and would live with me whenever he landed in Portland over the following 8 or 9 years. Pauly was LOVE personified...in the shape of a FABULOUS filipino drag-queen from Memphis. 

He'd show up on my doorstep twice a year with about 10 small bags/suitcases: 2 of them might contain regular clothes, but the rest contained a wondrous assortment of costumes, decorative odds and ends, multiple pairs of platform shoes, and the elaborate head-dresses that he often wore to parties. 

Oh, and there was always the one bag full of kitchen gadgets.

My mom always used to tell me that when Pauly was staying with me, she didn’t worry about me. Pauly was like a second mom--- he taught me how to walk in heels, talked with me about boys, always made sure I was well-fed, and that I felt loved and cared-for. 

I have many fond memories of coming home from a night out, and Pauly wandering out 

“Do you want something to eat?”. He’d whip up some salad rolls with home-made peanut sauce, and sit with me. 

“It’s bad for the soul, to eat alone” he’d say. And he’d tell me stories as I ate. 

He’d tell me stories about Memphis, about his family and  “his kids”. He was a nomad with a network of friends spanning the entire country, and he would spend his year travelling-- city to city, party to party. High on life and LOVE, he’d dance circles around kids half his age and younger. Come to think of it, I never really knew how old Pauly was. He told me he was 58 when I met him and 10-12 years later when asked his age, he would give the same response.

While Pauly was never able to sell me on the whole “rave scene” thing, the love and acceptance he lived and emanated, managed to transcended the obnoxious music, the horrible pants, and my own innate cynicism. I was affectionately granted the title of “Honorary Raver”. Over the years I housed a lot of DJ’s and club kids--- he almost always travelled with some cute boy or another-- all were welcomed into my home.  And all of us, “his kids”, navigated the rocky emotional terrain of our late teens and twenties (even into our thirties),  guided by his unassuming embodiment of love, joy, wisdom, and generosity.

Pauly, you will be missed and forever remembered.

R.I.P.

*Though there is a part of me that is absolutely heart-broken right now, there's another part of me that thinks: of course on Fat Tuesday--- some fabulous party was callin' your name. And I can picture you in all your fabulous glittery glory, dancing with a smile on your face.

All Content Copyright 2013, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved

Amateur Hour

"Can I just grab something outta my bag?"
It's filled to bursting. I try to prop it up as she rummages around.
Out comes a little black scrap of something.
She stuffs it in her mouth so she can wrestle the bag closed with both hands.
Spitting the lace back into her hand, she hands back the bag.
"It's my dance bag. I wanna do amateur hour and I'm not wearing panties."
With a shrug, she turns and disappears into the crowd.

(Amateur Hour. Sinferno. June 3rd, 2012)


All Content Copyright 2011, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved

50 Shades of...HEY!

Yesterday, during a rather boozy (is there any other kind?) literary event at Dante’s, I ran into an old acquaintance from the Poetry Slam days, back when I was performing in a music/spoken-word project. He insisted on introducing me to a local publisher, and led me to her table. He told her I write something that’s between esoterica and erotica--- "esoterotica" I think he dubbed it.
With a hint of a sneer she asked "Like 50 Shades of Gray?"
"Uh, no!" It was brusque, but it was apparent nothing I could say at that moment, in a noisy bar, was going to salvage that introduction. I excused myself, feeling rather offended.

I haven’t read 50 Shades of Grey, but I’ve read several articles, blogs, and reviews on it. Everyone says the writing is terrible; even fans of the book admit it. Why would I waste my time reading terrible writing? Just to read about BDSM play, something that probably looks like an average Tuesday night at my place? Meh...

Don’t even get me started on the whole fanfiction thing.

Anyway, back to my mortification at being summarily dismissed as a writer of Mommy Porn...

I started thinking: just how do I pitch my stuff now? I have a few things in the works. How do I pitch the "Misadventures" to that publisher or TV exec, in a post-50 Shades world, without being immediately categorized or dismissed as a copy-cat?

I’ve always found it interesting and (usually) amusing when people tell me what my blog is about. I hold that it says more about them than it does about me or the blog. They tell me I write about fucking, that I write erotica, that I write about “some pretty crazy shit”.
That people remember my writing as being explicit, means I’ve done my job as a writer. I am a human with a healthy libido: sex happens. There’s no need for a blow-by-blow.
The real story is in the before, the after, the in-between.

Then it struck me: when it comes to my Misadventures, I don’t write about sex, so much as I write around sex.

All Content Copyright 2012, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved

The Jupiter Hotel

He lay on the bed, watching me undress.
I watched his face.
This was no slow tease. Months in between and mere hours to go.
My movements were deliberate and efficient.
His expression shifted.
It was subtle, but I saw...hesitation.
"What?" I paused, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
"You know I think of you as a friend right?"
I laughed, relieved. "Where did that come from?"
"I just...I don't want you to think that this is the only reason I'm here, with you."
"Aw, that's sweet” I grinned as I moved to straddle him “And I know that. But we only have a few hours. We can talk later...on the phone, after you leave town." All Content Copyright 2011, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved

Bye Bye, Butterfly!

"Do you know why I asked you here?"

Butterfly Boy visibly paled.

"You're breaking up with me."

The proverbial light bulb over my head---

YES! Yes, that is exactly what I'm doing.

Until he uttered those words I had made no decisions, had no clear plan of action, merely some nebulous outline for one of those loathsome "talks". I despise "talks".

All we've done is talk, I thought--- talk about what he could do, should do, should be doing...

Months of listening to the litany of things he needs to do for himself--- to grow, to overcome, to evolve...and then he'd put that daunting mental list aside to make me an origami peacock out of a Comcast bill.
No time for the difficult, internal, mental/emotional work that we all need but hate to do. No, he had cakes to bake for me, potholders to sew for me...
And I was taken in by the loving subterfuge, trying to be a good woman to a wonderful devoted man.
But what an insidious trap, being the "good woman", the supportive girlfriend, the cheerleader/caretaker/counselor/healer.

"I need to...I need to...I need to..."

"You need to have a support network that isn't me" I'd said "I'd like to just be your girlfriend."

So he finally sought out and talked to the people I found, called people I'd spoken to on his behalf. He dutifully considered the advice and suggestions we made...and followed none of them.

I watched him spend countless hours admiring and praising all of the information, all of the tools he had amassed, and then sitting, paralyzed and bemoaning his failure before he'd even begun.

I tend to take people at their word.

His words of late spoke only of failure, despair, self-loathing, and self-sabotage.

Should it be surprising that a person's words should make them more or less attractive to a writer?

Give me words like passion, confidence, hope! Sex?

How about a phrase?

How about: "Fun, passionate, carefree sex"?

It doesn't exist when you feel more like a cheerleader/caretaker/therapist than a girlfriend.

In my heart of hearts (and loins), I wanted to want BB, but it would have felt like a pity-fuck.

I would have snapped sooner, had we not had an open relationship, and I'd not had an outlet.

But the day came when I finally did snap. Desperation (and a very dear and sympathetic friend) took me away for an impromptu beach getaway.
After months of feeling physically and emotionally drained, and being unable to discern the cause, I got a reprieve. After two days of being completely apart from BB, I felt more like myself than I had in months. I finally had the moment of clarity I needed.
I began to piece things together: I found him this person and that person to talk to, I'm always suggesting solutions/angles/perspectives. What has he done? Has he done things based on his own initiative or merely gone along with my suggestions (read: nagging).

When did I become this person? The cheerleader? I hated cheerleaders!

All of my energy and hours of every day spent reassuring, encouraging, supporting to the point of feeling like I was the only one actually trying to shore up the whole toppling mess while he stood by, throwing his hands up in bewilderment and cooking me dinner instead.

Rather than get trapped under the rubble, I made my exit.

"I love you, but in true Leo fashion--- I love me more."

It remains to be seen whether that house of cards will stand or fall, but whichever way it goes, it's not my responsibility and never really was.

There is something so very freeing in that realization.

And in helping him realize that it is, in fact, his.

Owning up to that kind of responsibility has not been his strong suit, however, at least not where our shared experience is concerned.

It's the reason why, for two years, I lost my Blowjob Mojo---but that's a story for another blog...

xo,

Infamous CoatCheck Girl


All Content Copyright 2011, Juliana Tobón. All Rights Reserved